Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The morning sun filtered through the blinds of Stephen’s kitchen, casting sharp, slanted bars of light across the marble island. It was a Tuesday, but for Anya, the days of the week were beginning to blur into a singular, buzzing hum of anticipation.
Stephen stood at the counter, a French press in one hand and a sleek, oversized tablet in the other. He didn't look like a suburban dad today; he looked like a stockbroker watching a bull market run.
"Sit," he commanded gently, sliding a steaming mug of black coffee toward her. "And look."
Anya hopped onto the high stool, confident in her movements. She wasn't wearing her cleaning clothes; she wore her skinny jeans and the Louboutins—her armor. She looked at the screen Stephen spun toward her.
It wasn't a spreadsheet. It was a graph, and the line was shooting joyfully, vertically upward.
"Your debut," Stephen said, a tone of genuine professional awe in his voice. "We’ve had more conversions in forty-eight hours than any new model launch in the last three years. The 'Amethyst' persona resonates. They love the transition from cool to chaotic."
Anya traced the line with her finger, feeling a thrill that was sharper than the caffeine. "So, what does this mean? More solo videos?"
Stephen set the French press down. "It means we escalate. Solo videos are the bread and butter, Anya. But the real money? The legacy content? That comes from dynamic friction. Conflict."
He swiped the screen, minimizing her graph and pulling up a new profile.
The video thumbnail showed a girl who was the aesthetic opposite of Anya’s polished, academic vibe. She was sprawled on a beanbag, chewing gum with her mouth open, wearing a neon-pink Adidas tracksuit and oversized gold hoop earrings. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, high ponytail that whipped around as she moved. She looked loud. She looked trouble.
"Meet Jynx," Stephen introduced. "She’s one of our top performers in the 'Brat' category. South London energy. Relentless, loud, and utterly chaotic. The fans adore her because she fights back."
Anya studied the girl. Jynx was laughing in the thumbnail, but her eyes had a hard, street-smart glint to them.
"I see," Anya said slowly. "And?"
"And," Stephen leaned in, his eyes gleaming. "The comments are already asking for it. They want the collision. Order versus Chaos. The Head Girl versus the Delinquent."
He tapped the screen, bringing up a storyboard document.
"I’ve drafted a two-part narrative arc. It’s titled 'The Education of Jynx.' It would be a versus match. In the first scene, Jynx holds the power. We set it in a dorm room. You’re the snitch—the 'Head Girl' who reported her for smoking. She ambushes you."
Anya raised an eyebrow. "Ambushes me how?"
"Low tech. Visceral," Stephen explained, using his hands to frame the scene. "She tackles you on the bed. She wraps you in your own duvet—a 'human burrito.' Your arms are pinned, your legs are swaddled. The only thing sticking out of the bottom..."
"My feet," Anya finished.
"Your bare, defenseless feet," Stephen nodded. "Jynx sits on your shins to lock you down, and she goes to town. She’s a physical tickler, Anya. She uses her nails, she digs, she mocks you while she does it. It’s humiliation. It’s the breakdown of your authority."
Anya felt a spike of nerves—the idea of being swaddled and helpless against someone aggressive was daunting—but the narrative logic was sound. "Okay. And the second scene?"
"The Revenge," Stephen grinned. "We switch power dynamics completely. Setting: The School Library. Jynx is in evening detention. You are the supervising Prefect."
He swiped to a reference image of a heavy wooden library chair.
"Jynx is failing to sit still. She’s being disruptive. So, you, as the figure of authority, decide to enforce the rules. You restrain her to the chair—wrists behind her back, ankles secured to a bench. To ensure she doesn't 'fidget'."
"Silence in the library," Anya murmured, the idea taking root.
"Precisely," Stephen snapped his fingers. "But here’s the game. You don't just tickle her. You punish the noise. Every time she laughs, squeals, or begs, you restart the timer or increase the intensity. Jynx is naturally loud; enforcing silence on her will drive her insane. It’s psychological warfare. You use your status as the calm, collected scholar to dismantle her."
Anya looked back at the photo of Jynx. The girl looked tough, leaning back with her arms crossed and a defiant, chewing-gum sneer plastered on her face. But the idea of tying her down in a quiet room and making her swallow that attitude... it sparked a dark, competitive hunger in Anya’s gut.
"The pay?" Anya asked.
Stephen wrote a figure on a notepad and slid it across the marble.
It was double her last session.
"Jynx is a premium co-star," Stephen added. "And Versus videos sell at a higher tier."
Anya looked at the number. Then she looked at the "Chavvy" girl in the tracksuit.
"I'll do it," Anya said, her voice firm. "I want to teach her a lesson."
"Excellent," Stephen smiled, looking like a man who had just arranged the fight of the century. "I'll send you her portfolio links. Do your homework, Anya. Jynx is... intense. You’ll want to know what you’re up against before Saturday."
---
That evening, the glow of Anya’s laptop turned her bedroom into a bunker. Outside, the London rain drummed a relentless, rhythmic beat against the glass, but inside, the room felt different than it had a month ago.
The corner where she used to stack her cleaning supplies—the bucket, the mop, the worn-out tabard—was empty. She had handed the keys back to Stephen on Monday, explaining that her "schedule" had become too demanding. He had accepted them with a knowing smile, fully aware that "Amethyst" was currently generating more revenue in an hour than Anya the Cleaner earned in a month.
Financial security was a relief, but reading the storyboard for the new shoot, Anya felt a different kind of poverty. She felt under-equipped.
She opened the first link Stephen had sent: Jynx vs. The Fresher.
The video opened with a handheld, shaky-cam style. Jynx dominated the frame. She wore a bright yellow tracksuit top, zipped down enough to show a flash of attitude, and huge gold hoop earrings that swung violently as she moved. She was straddling a smaller, pale girl who was tied to a bedframe.
"Thought you could ignore me, yeah?" Jynx sneered, snapping her gum. Her accent was thick, sharp South London—a stark contrast to Anya’s soft, Eastern-European tones. "Thought you was too good to pay the toll?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She dove in.
Anya watched, mesmerizingly horrified. Jynx was a physical storm. She used her nails. She dug them into the girl's ribs with a piston-like rhythm, laughing manically along with her victim. She was merciless. She would stop for a split second, let the girl gasp "please," and then dive back in harder, mocking her the entire time.
"Look at you! Squirming! Pathetic! Go on, cry about it!"
Anya swallowed hard. The sheer energy was terrifying. Jynx didn't just tickle; she brawled. The idea of being wrapped in a duvet, helpless while that chaotic force sat on her legs... Anya pulled her own knees up to her chest, a phantom itch running along her soles.
She closed that tab and opened the next one. Jynx: The Endurance Test.
This time, Jynx was the one in the chair.
"Okay," Anya whispered to herself. "Let's see you break."
The video started. Jynx was restrained in a heavy wooden stock, her bare feet displayed to the camera.
Anya leaned in. Jynx’s feet were fascinating in a car-crash sort of way. They weren't the pale, elegant porcelain of "Amethyst." They were darker, broader, and the soles looked incredibly soft. When Jynx flexed her toes, the skin was so plush that deep canyons and ridges appeared in her arches—a map of extreme sensitivity.
The tickler—Stephen's hand with a bottle of baby oil—began to work.
"AH-HA-HA-HA-HA! OI! THAT'S COLD! HA-HA-HA!"
Jynx exploded instantly. Her laughter was loud, barking, and infectious. She thrashed against the stocks, her head whipping back and forth, her ponytail lashing the air. But as Anya watched, she noticed something disturbing.
Jynx was screaming. She was red-faced. She was drooling slightly. But her eyes? Her eyes were mocking the camera.
"Is that all you got? HA-HA-HA! My Nan tickles harder than that! EEEE-HEEE!"
She never stopped talking. She weaponized her own suffering. She turned the noise into a shield. Even when the tickler brought out a vibrating wand and Jynx was howling, "NO NO NO ST-ST-STOP!", she was still projecting an aura of untouchable toughness. She was a rubber ball—you could squeeze her, but she would just bounce back the second you let go.
Anya paused the video. The silence in her room felt heavy.
She looked at her own hands. Her fingers were long, manicured, elegant. The hands of a scholar. The hands of a girl who turned pages and typed essays. These were not the hands of a tormentor. They looked soft. Ineffective.
"I can't beat her," Anya realized, a cold dread settling in her stomach. "Not like this."
If she tried to match Jynx’s energy in the library scene, she would lose. If she tried to be aggressive, Jynx would just laugh at her, not from the sensation. She imagined Jynx tied to the chair, giggling at Anya’s polite attempts to dig into those Jynx's wrinkled soles.
"What's wrong, posh girl! Afraid you'll break a nail? HA-HA-HA!"
The humiliation would be worse than the ink. It would be professional suicide. The "Head Girl" would look like a substitute teacher who couldn't control the unruly class.
Anya grabbed her phone. The panic was rising, tight and hot in her throat. She needed strategy. She needed someone who knew how to dismantle a bomb without it going off in her face.
She scrolled past Stephen’s name. This wasn't a producer problem. This was a technique problem.
She tapped the contact saved as Mistress Claire.
Anya: Hi Claire. Stephen just pitched me the new arc. He wants me to go up against a model called Jynx. And he wants me to dominate her in the second half. I’ve only ever been the one in the chair... I’m terrified I’m going to look weak next to her.
She stared at the screen, chewing her lip. The three dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again.
Claire: Jynx? Bold choice by Stephen. She’s a handful even for experienced Doms, let alone for your debut as a ler. She's as ticklish as they come, but she also has a lot of resolve.
Claire: But don't panic. Chaos can be managed if you have the right tools. Why don’t you come over to my place on Wednesday afternoon? I’ll have wine, and we can go over some containment strategies. Anyway, I want to hear all about the Amethyst launch.
Anya let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
Anya: Thank you. That would be amazing.
Claire: Texting you the address now. Wear something comfortable. We have work to do.
---
The address Claire had sent belonged to a sleek, glass-fronted building in Kensington that smelled of lilies and old money. The elevator opened directly into her penthouse, a sprawling space of polished concrete floors, low Italian furniture, and a floor-to-ceiling view of the rainy London skyline.
Claire stood by a marble sideboard, pouring a rich, dark red wine into two oversized glasses. She wore a charcoal cashmere sweater and black leggings, tucked into knee-high leather riding boots.
"You wore the armor," Claire noted with a small smile, her eyes dropping to Anya’s feet.
Anya stood in the entryway, the click of her Louboutins echoing on the concrete. Despite Claire’s advice to dress comfortably, she hadn’t been able to leave them behind. They were the battery pack for her confidence.
"I feel... sharper in them," Anya admitted, walking over to accept the wine. "Like I'm stepping into the role before I even turn on the camera."
"Good," Claire toasted her, the crystal ringing softly. "That’s the first lesson. The fetish isn't just for them. It’s for you. Tell me about the 'Casting Couch' shoot. Stephen sent me the rough cut of the Amethyst intro. You looked... different."
"I felt different," Anya said, sinking into one of the low leather armchairs. She crossed her legs, the red sole of her right shoe vivid against the dark room. "When he did the surprise attack with the oil... usually, that panic makes me feel small. But this time? I knew the camera was watching. I knew thousands of people would see me lose control. And instead of shrinking, I felt... huge. Like, even my helplessness was a power move because I was letting them see it."
"That’s the switch flipping," Claire nodded, leaning back against the sideboard. "You realized that the person commanding the attention is the one in control, regardless of who is laughing. But now," her expression sharpened, shifting into tactical mode, "Stephen wants you to be the one causing the panic. Tell me about the scenario."
"It's a grudge match," Anya explained, leaning forward. "Stephen wants to invoke the 'Scholar' persona fully. Jynx wraps me in a duvet first—classic dorm prank bullying. But for the revenge..." Anya paused, a small smile touching her lips. "I catch her in detention in the library. I tie her down. And I enforce a 'Silence Rule.' Every time she laughs or squeals, I punish her."
Claire’s eyebrows rose, a look of genuine appreciation crossing her face. "Stephen is a devil. That is... exceptionally cruel. And perfect for Jynx."
"Why?"
"Because Jynx is a noise machine," Claire said, swirling her wine. "She uses her volume as a weapon. She screams, she taunts, she laughs like a hyena. It overwhelms the ler. It makes you feel like you aren't hurting her, just annoying her. But if you take away her voice? If you force her to bottle that energy up inside?" Claire smirked. "She’ll implode. You’ll be fighting her on a battlefield where she has no ammunition."
She set her wine down and walked over to the seating area.
"But the concept is only as good as the execution, Anya. Stephen tells me you’ve never tickled anyone before."
"Never," Anya admitted, look down at her hands. "I have no idea what I'm doing. I tried to practice on a cushion last night, and I felt ridiculous."
"A cushion doesn't have nerves," Claire said briskly. She sat down on the leather ottoman directly in front of Anya’s chair. "Put your glass down. We’re doing a practical."
Anya set her wine on the side table, her heart rate kicking up a notch.
"Give me your foot," Claire commanded. "Keep the shoe on for now. I want to show you the difference between surface and depth."
Anya extended her leg. Claire caught her heel in one hand. The grip was firm, professional, yet undeniably possessive.
"Most amateurs tickle like this," Claire said. She ran her fingernails lightly, rapidly over the nylons covering Anya's instep. It was a skittering, itchy sensation.
"Eee! Yeah," Anya giggled, twitching her foot. "That’s itchy."
"It's annoying," Claire corrected dismissively. "It creates a surface reaction. A giggle. But to break someone like Jynx? You need to bypass the skin entirely."
Before Anya could react, Claire hooked her fingers under the heel of the Louboutin and slid it off with a single, decisive motion. She placed the expensive shoe onto the rug beside her. Anya’s foot, now clad only in the sheer nylon, felt suddenly naked and vulnerable.
Claire shifted her grip, capturing the now-exposed foot. She moved her thumb to the center of Anya’s arch. She didn't scratch. She pressed, the sheer fabric doing nothing to cushion the sharp pressure. She dug her thumb deep into the plantar fascia and vibrated it with a slow, grinding intensity.
"AH! Ooh! That’s—!" Anya gasped, her toes curling hard, the knuckles turning white under the sheer nylon. The sensation wasn't an itch; it was a jolt of electricity that shot up her calf. It was heavy, aching, and overwhelmingly ticklish.
"That," Claire said, holding the pressure as Anya squirmed, "is the nerve. You aren't tickling the skin; you are vibrating the tension in the muscle itself. Jynx doesn't have tough feet—on the contrary, her soles are incredibly soft—but she has tough resolve. She uses noise and bravado to shield herself. A surface tickle won't break her; she'll just laugh it off. You have to bypass her defenses and go straight for the deep nerve. You have to hunt for that wire."
She released Anya’s foot. "Now. Your turn."
Claire reached down to her own knee-high leather boot.
Zzzzzzzip.
The sound was loud in the quiet penthouse. Claire peeled the leather shaft down her calf. She gripped the heel and pulled. With a heavy thud, the boot hit the floor.
Claire wasn't wearing socks. Her foot was bare, pale, and exquisitely groomed. Her arch was incredibly high, almost dancer-like, and her toes were long and dextrous. She lifted her leg and placed her bare foot squarely in Anya’s lap, resting her heel on Anya’s denim-clad thigh.
"Touch it," Claire ordered.
Anya froze. It was one thing to be touched; it was another to touch the Mentor. It felt like crossing a forbidden line. The foot in her lap was warm, the skin smooth but firm.
Anya reached out tentatively. She placed her hand on Claire’s sole. It was dauntingly soft.
"Don't pet me, I'm not a cat," Claire scolded gently. "Find the structure. Squeeze."
Anya tightened her grip, wrapping her fingers around the ball of the foot and the heel.
"Better," Claire said. "Now. Find the spot I just showed you. The center of the arch. Don't scratch. Dig."
Anya moved her thumb to the hollow of Claire’s foot. She pressed.
Claire didn't move. She just watched Anya with cool, analytical eyes. "Harder. You have student hands, Anya. You’re being polite. Jynx is a bully. If you are polite, she will eat you alive. Assert yourself."
Anya bit her lip. She thought of the "silence in the library." She thought of Jynx sneering in the video. She channeled a flash of frustration and pushed. She drove her thumb hard into the soft, yielding flesh of Claire’s arch and wiggled it aggressively.
Claire’s toes snapped shut.
"Nnngh!"
A sharp, involuntary sound escaped Claire’s throat. Her foot jerked on Anya’s lap, the muscles in her leg bunching tight as the sensation hit the nerve.
Anya stopped, eyes widening. "I— I’m sorry!"
"Don't you dare apologize," Claire said, breathlessly, a grin spreading across her face. "That was it. Did you feel the difference? Did you feel the muscle span under your thumb?"
"Yes," Anya said, looking at her hand with new respect. "It felt... tight. Like a guitar string."
"Exactly. That is your target," Claire breathed, flexing her toes to work out the tension. "You found it. But..."
She looked at Anya’s fingernails—short, neat, practical.
"You need more than thumbs. Jynx has such plush, deep pads on her soles; she absorbs blunt pressure like a sponge. To really shock her system… to cut through that wall of noise she puts up… you need claws."
Claire swung her leg off Anya’s lap and reached for her phone.
"Are you free for the rest of the afternoon?"
"Yes," Anya nodded.
"Good," Claire stood up, sliding her foot back into her boot with a fluid motion. "Grab your coat. My favorite spa in Mayfair is expecting us in thirty minutes. You and I are getting the full treatment. And you, my dear, are getting a set of reinforced, stiletto-tip acrylics."
She winked, grabbing her purse.
"If you're going to be a villain, you might as well look the part."
---
The spa, simply titled L'Oasi, was tucked away on a side street in Mayfair that whispered wealth rather than shouted it. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of cucumber water and expensive polymers.
The receptionist looked up, her professional smile widening into genuine panic-tinged respect the moment she saw who walked through the glass doors.
"Claire," she breathed. "We weren't expecting—"
"I know, darling. Impromptu emergency," Claire waved a dismissive hand. "Is Alessandro in?"
"For you? Always."
Moments later, a curtain swept back and a man emerged. He was in his fifties, impeccably groomed, wearing a fitted black tunic that couldn't hide his flamboyant energy. He had silver hair swept back like a lion’s mane and eyes that twinkled with mischief.
"The Queen returns!" he declaimed, his Italian accent thick and rich like heavy cream. He bypassed the reception desk entirely to embrace Claire, kissing both her cheeks. "It has been too long. My hands have been idle without your arches to inspire them."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Alessandro," Claire smirked, patting his arm. "But today is strictly business. I have brought a protégé."
She stepped aside, revealing Anya.
Alessandro turned, his eyes narrowing in professional assessment. He took Anya’s hand, inspecting her fingers, then his gaze dropped—instinctively, professionally, hungrily—to her shoes.
"Ah," he murmured. "Fresh blood. Good bone structure. A size ten, if I am not mistaken? Exquisite."
"This is Amethyst," Claire introduced, using the stage name. "And she is about to go to war. We need the full works, Alessandro. But specifically... I need you to give her my signature claws. Stilettos. Reinforced tips."
Alessandro’s eyebrows shot up. "The 'disciplinary' set? For her?" He looked at Anya’s soft features and grinned. "The quiet ones are always the most dangerous. Come. My private suite is open."
---
The private suite was a sanctuary of white marble and gold fixtures. Anya and Claire were settled into side-by-side massage chairs. A young female technician, nervous and silent, began soaking Anya’s feet in a basin of rose petals.
But Alessandro ignored the junior staff. He pulled his stool up to Claire’s chair. He lifted Claire’s bare foot as if handling a Faberge egg, resting it on his towel-draped knee.
"The usual?" he asked, his thumb already working a knot out of Claire’s sole with a reverence that bordered on worship.
"Please," Claire sighed, leaning back and closing her eyes. "And while you marinate me, I need you to sculpt Amethyst’s hands. She’s filming a 'Silence in the Library' scene in a few days against Jynx."
Alessandro let out a low whistle as he began to exfoliate Claire’s heel. "Jynx? That chaotic little hurricane?"
After applying a final, thick layer of moisturizing oil to Claire's soles, he wrapped each foot carefully in a series of hot, steaming towels, creating a warm, fragrant cocoon.
"Let the oils work their wonders," he winked at Claire, before wheeling his stool over to Anya’s side. He positioned himself so he could work on her hands while the junior tech handled her pedicure.
He took Anya’s right hand. "So, Piccola," he said, picking up a file. "You want to make them scream, yes?"
"I want to make them listen," Anya corrected, channeling a flash of her new persona.
Alessandro laughed, delighted. "I like her, Claire. She has fire."
He began to work. It wasn't a manicure; it was construction. He applied the forms, building long, tapering points that extended well past her natural fingertips. Anya felt the fine, vibrating rasp of the file against the acrylic, a strange sensation that traveled down her finger to the knuckle. It felt like her very hands were being reshaped, their purpose altered. As he worked the final file, sculpting the tip into that perfect, diabolical point, he spoke without looking up.
"The secret, Piccola," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, "is not the sharpness. It is the focus."
He held her finished index finger up to the light. The nail was a glossy black stiletto, tapering to a wickedly fine point. But on close inspection, the very tip wasn't a razor's edge. It was a pinhead, a tiny, hardened sphere of acrylic, polished to a glass-like smoothness. It wouldn't cut. It would concentrate every ounce of pressure into a single, agonizing nerve.
Anya touched the tip with the thumb of her other hand. It felt like pressing down on the head of a nail. Solid. Unforgiving.
Alessandro met her eyes in the mirror. "An instrument for finding truth," he grinned.
While the acrylics cured under the UV lamp—casting a strange, violet glow over the scene and bathing her hands in an odd, penetrating warmth—Alessandro returned to Claire’s feet. He unwrapped the towels with a flourish, revealing skin that was now impossibly soft and glowing.
"Ready for the final touch, my Queen?" he asked, holding up a bottle of nail polish. He painted her toes a deep, oxblood red. But he took his time. He lingered. He used his pinkie to tickle the very center of her arch, just for a second, watching Claire’s toes twitch involuntarily.
"Behave, Alessandro," Claire warned lazily.
"I cannot help it," Alessandro murmured, his eyes gleaming with fanatical adoration. "I watched your new upload last night. Twice. The arch control was magnificent. I simply had to verify the sensitivity for myself."
Claire offered a small, knowing smile—the kind reserved for only the oldest of friends. "You are lucky I’ve been sitting in your chair since you were a junior technician scrubbing foot baths, Alessandro. If we didn't have ten years of history, you would lose a finger for that."
"Yes, well I am a Senior Aesthetician now," he said, puffing out his chest dramatically, "and as your biggest fan, it is a perk of the job."
With a final, artistic flourish, Alessandro applied a clear top coat to Claire's toes and gently set her foot down. Just then, the timer on the UV lamp at Anya's station let out a soft, polite beep.
"Ah, the prodigy is cured," Alessandro declared, effortlessly wheeling his stool back to Anya's side. He carefully removed her hands from the device, inspecting the long, tapering acrylics. "The structure is sound. Now, for the final coat of armor."
He painted the long, deadly talons a glossy, jet black.
"Hold them up," Alessandro commanded.
Anya lifted her hands. The nails were terrifyingly beautiful. Long, tapering to a needle-point, black as ink. They clicked together with a hard, synthetic sound. Click-clack.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a predator.
"How do they feel?" Claire asked, sitting up and inspecting her own perfect pedicure.
Anya flexed her fingers. She imagined Jynx’s wrinkled soles under these tips. She imagined the power of just threatening to touch.
"They feel..." Anya smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. "Lethal."
"Perfect," Claire stood up, sliding her freshly painted feet back into her boots. "Alessandro, put it on my account. And add a generous tip for yourself. You’ve outdone yourself."
"For you, anything," Alessandro bowed, kissing Claire’s hand, then Anya’s. He looked Anya in the eye. "Go get her, Tiger. Make her beg."
---
The Green Room was buzzing with a nervous electricity. Stephen had transformed his living room into a staging area, complete with a clothing rack, a table of fruit and water, and a large whiteboard displaying the day’s shots.
Anya sat on the edge of the sofa, dressed in her "Head Girl" costume: a crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar, a grey pleated skirt, and her jet-black nails resting conspicuously on her knees. She felt calm. The tips of her fingers were heavy, a constant reminder of the weapons she carried.
Across from her, sprawling on a beanbag chair, was Jynx.
Jynx looked exactly like her videos, only louder. She was wearing a neon-pink velour tracksuit that seemed to vibrate under the room lights. Her hair was scraped back into a high, tight ponytail, and enormous gold hoop earrings swung against her jaw as she chewed a piece of gum with rhythmic aggression.
"Right, listen up," Stephen clapped his hands, stepping in front of the whiteboard. "This is the big one. The fans have been screaming for this match-up since the teaser dropped. The narrative is 'Order versus Chaos.' We start with Chaos."
He tapped the first box on the board.
"Scene One: The Dorm. Amethyst, you’re the snitch. You reported Jynx to the Dean. You’re studying on your bed, minding your own business. Jynx, you storm in. You’re angry. You want payback."
Jynx popped a bubble of gum. Snap. "Standard procedure, then. I tackle her?"
"You tackle her," Stephen confirmed. "You wrestle her down. It needs to be messy. Lots of struggle. Then, you grab the duvet. I want the 'Burrito Wrap.' Tight. Pin her arms, pin her legs. Isolate the feet at the end of the bed."
Jynx looked Amethyst up and down, a smirk playing on her lips. "Easy work. She looks light. I'll fold her like laundry."
"Once she’s wrapped," Stephen continued, ignoring the jibe, "you sit on her shins to lock her down. Then you go to town. I want verbal humiliation. Mock her for snitching. Mock her for being sensitive. Amethyst... I need you to sell the panic. You’re the Head Girl losing control."
"Understood," Anya nodded coolly.
"Scene Two," Stephen moved to the next box. "The Revenge. Library Detention. We flip the script. Jynx is restrained. Amethyst enforces the 'Silence Rule.' We’ll cover the specifics of the restraint when we reset the room, but the vibe is cold, clinical authority."
"Got it," Jynx shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of her own demise. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and fixing Anya with a predatory stare.
"So," Jynx drawled, her accent thick and sharp. "You’re the new 'it' girl, yeah? The Scholar?"
Anya met her gaze. "That's what they say."
"I watched your intro," Jynx chuckled, shaking her head. "Cute. Very posed. But have you ever had a real tickling? Not Stephen dabbing you with oil, but a proper South London scrubbing?"
"I can't say I have," Anya replied neutrally.
"Shame," Jynx grinned, her eyes dropping to Anya’s bare feet resting on the carpet. "Because I don't stop when you squeak, darling. I’ve been looking forward to this. Your soles looked... creamy in that video. So soft. Like dough." She flexed her hands, displaying square-tipped, hot pink acrylics. "I bet I can make you cry in under a minute. I’m gonna shred that dignity of yours."
It was a good line. It was designed to intimidate. A week ago, Anya would have flinched. She would have tucked her feet under the sofa.
Instead, Anya said nothing. She didn't blink.
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her right hand to her face. With a languid, almost bored movement, she used the tip of her index finger to scratch a phantom itch just beneath her left eye.
Click.
The sound of the stiletto nail hitting her cheekbone was tiny, but sharp.
The light caught the obsidian black polish. It caught the terrifying, needle-thin point of the reinforced tip Alessandro had sculpted. It was a dagger, not a fingernail.
Anya lowered her hand, letting the movement hang in the air. She saw Jynx’s eyes track the motion. She saw the gum-chewing slow down for a fraction of a second as Jynx registered the weapon.
"You can try," Anya said softly, a small, icy smile touching her lips. "But save some energy for the library, Jynx. It’s a long detention."
Jynx’s eyes narrowed. The bravado didn't vanish—she wasn't an amateur—but a flicker of wariness appeared behind the defiance. She had recognized the threat.
"Alright," Stephen interrupted, sensing the tension peaking perfectly. "Let's harness that energy. Set is hot. Places, please."
---
The "Dorm Room" set was a masterpiece of manufactured clutter. A single bed was pushed against the wall, covered in a heavy, floral duvet that looked straight out of a university catalog. Textbooks were scattered on the floor next to an overflowing laundry basket.
"Rolling," Stephen called from behind the camera rig. "And... Action!"
Anya lay on her stomach on the bed in 'the pose', her legs kicking idly in the air. She was reading a thick Economics textbook, a highlighter pen in her hand. She looked the picture of studious innocence.
SLAM.
The door flew open.
Jynx didn't walk in; she exploded into the room.
"There she is!" Jynx shouted, pointing a pink-tipped finger accusingly. "The little snitch!"
Anya scrambled to sit up, dropping the book. "I— You’re not supposed to be in here!"
"Not supposed to be smoking either, was I?" Jynx sneered, advancing on the bed. "But you went crying to the Dean, din'cha? Teacher's Pet!"
"I was enforcing the rules!" Anya protested, backing up against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest.
"I’ll show you rules!"
Jynx lunged. She dove onto the mattress, leading with her shoulder. She slammed into Anya, driving the breath out of her with a sharp Oof!
The struggle was a frantic, messy brawl on the narrow mattress. Anya, starting on her stomach, tried to buck and twist away, but Jynx used her superior weight, forcing Anya to flip over onto her back with a heavy grunt. For a terrifying second, Jynx pinned Anya’s wrists against the pillow above her head, grinning down at her.
"Time for bed, Princess!"
Before Anya could use her legs to kick, Jynx released her wrists and grabbed the edge of the heavy duvet. Instead of rolling, Jynx pulled the entire thick quilt over Anya, using her body weight to press it down while she furiously tucked the edges under Anya's body, trapping her arms flat against her sides. She grabbed the trailing edge and pulled it taut across Anya's legs, swaddling her into a tight, helpless cylinder of cotton.
"No! Get off! Hhh-mph!"
Jynx scrambled down the length of the "burrito." She grabbed the bottom of the duvet and yanked it up, exposing Anya’s feet and ankles to the cool studio air.
"Gotcha," Jynx panted, a manic grin on her face.
With a heavy thud, she sat down hard on Anya’s shins. The weight was immense. Anya tried to kick, but she was anchored. Her feet dangled uselessly off the end of the bed.
Jynx leaned forward, cracking her knuckles. Instinctively trying to pull away from the threat, Anya flexed her ankles hard, pulling her toes back toward her body. The futile, panicked movement had the opposite effect she intended: it stretched her arches taut and rotated her soles to face the ceiling, presenting them like a platter.
Jynx seized the opportunity and she dove in with both hands, her square-tipped nails clawing directly into the centers of Anya’s taut soles.
"AAA-HAAA-HAAA-HAAA! NO! JYNX! STO-HO-HO-HOP!"
Anya’s head whipped back against the pillow. The sensation was overwhelming. Jynx wasn't using technique; she was using chaos. She was scribbling aggressively all over the sensitive skin, her fingers moving in a blur of motion.
"Look at them twitch!" Jynx cackled, her voice high and mocking. "Look at the little snitch wiggle! Tickle-tickle-tickle!"
She dug her thumbs into the balls of Anya’s feet and vibrated them violently.
"EEEE-HEEE-HEEE! GET O-HO-HO-OFF! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Anya’s laughter was a high, desperate shriek. Inside the duvet cocoon, her body was thrashing, but the swaddle absorbed all her energy. She was completely helpless.
"What's the matter? Can't handle it?" Jynx shouted over the screams. She shifted her attack, grabbing Anya’s big toes and pulling them apart to rake her nails through the webbing.
"NOOOO! NOT THERE! NOT THE TOES! AAAA-HAAA-HAAA! P-PLEASE! I'M SORRY! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"She's sorry!" Jynx looked at the camera, her eyes wide and gleeful. "Did you hear that? The Head Girl is sorry!"
She leaned forward, putting her face right next to Anya’s writhing soles. "Sorry isn't good enough! I want tears! I want you begging!"
She began to 'spider' her fingers down the sides of Anya’s feet, finding the ultra-sensitive skin near the heel.
"YIIIII-IKES! NO! NO! NO! HA-HA-HA-HA! SOMEONE! HELP MEEEE! HA-HA-HA!"
"No-one's gonna help you!" Jynx laughed, grabbing both heels and shaking them. "You're mine!"
The scene continued for five agonizing minutes. Jynx was relentless, switching from scratching to squeezing to frantic, scribbling tickles. Anya was reduced to a sobbing, laughing mess, her face flushed crimson, sweat dampening her hairline.
"Give up!" Jynx demanded, digging her knuckles into the arches. "Say you're a loser!"
"I'M A LO-HO-HO-SER! HA-HA-HA! I'M A LOSER! STOP! PLEASE ST-HAAA-HAAA-P!"
"Good girl," Jynx grinned. "But I'm not done yet!"
And she dove back in.
"Come on!" Jynx roared, her hands blurring into a frenzy on Anya’s insteps. "Say it! Say 'Jynx is the Queen!'"
"JYNX IS... HA-HA-HA-HA! I CAN'T! I CAN'T BREATHE!"
"SAY IT!" Jynx dug her knuckles into the delicate arch, vibrating her fist with brutal force.
"JYNX IS THE QUEEN! THE QUEEN! HA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! PLEASE ST-HAAA-HAAA-P!"
Anya’s voice cracked into a high, hysterical sob, her head thrashing against the pillow, sweat matting her hair to her forehead. She was completely broken, a sobbing, laughing mess of surrender.
"And... Cut!" Stephen shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife.
Jynx stopped instantly. Her hands, which a second ago had been instruments of torture, lifted away from Anya’s soles. She grabbed the edge of the duvet and peeled it back, unrolling the swaddle with surprising gentleness.
"You alright, babes?" Jynx asked, her voice dropping the jagged, aggressive edge. She sounded breathless herself, her chest heaving under the pink tracksuit.
Anya lay spreadeagled on the mattress, gulping down air. Her feet felt like they were vibrating, glowing with a phantom heat. She nodded weakly, wiping her eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just... wow."
Jynx offered a hand and pulled Anya into a sitting position. "You took that like a champ," she said, nodding respectfully. "I was going full throttle there at the end. Most freshers tap out by minute three. You’ve got serious stamina."
"Thanks, Jynx," Anya managed a shaky laugh, rubbing her sore ankles. "Guess I am tougher than I look. But god, you wrap tight."
"Trade secret," Jynx winked. "Come on. Stephen’s ordered Nando’s. You need protein if you’re gonna destroy me in act two."
---
The Green Room felt like a sanctuary. Anya sat on the sofa, picking at a grilled chicken wrap, watching Jynx re-adjust her ponytail in the mirror. It was strange to see the "Delinquent" wiping hot sauce off her lip and checking her phone messages.
"So," Jynx said, turning around. "Revenge time next. You nervous?"
"A little," Anya admitted. "I’ve never been the 'ler' before."
"Don't overthink it," Jynx advised, popping a fresh piece of gum. "You’ve got the look. And those nails?" She gestured to Anya’s jet-black talons. "Those are scary. Use them. If I’m loud—and I will be loud—don't let it rattle you. Just dig deeper. Make me regret opening my mouth."
Stephen poked his head around the door. "Ladies. The Library is open. We’re on in five."
---
The transformation of the studio was jarring. The messy, colorful dorm was gone. In its place was a moody, shadow-filled set. Studio lights were gelled to create the amber glow of evening. A heavy oak desk stood in the center, and behind it, a solitary, straight-backed wooden chair facing the camera, with a low bench positioned in front of it.
"Jynx, take your seat," Stephen directed.
Jynx sat in the wooden chair. Stephen moved efficiently to secure her. He pulled her arms behind the back of the chair, locking her wrists in heavy, padded leather cuffs. She was chest-forward, completely exposed.
Then came the legs. He lifted her feet onto the low bench. He strapped her ankles down with thick, decisive belts. Her legs were extended, her bare feet displayed perfectly for the camera.
Jynx’s soles were different from Anya’s. They were tanned and broad, but the skin appeared startlingly soft. As she flexed her toes nervously, the plush pads of her arches folded into deep, intricate fissures. It was a landscape of sensitivity.
Stephen stepped back. "Okay. The scenario: Jynx, you’re in detention. You’ve been disruptive. Amethyst, you are the Prefect. The rule is simple: Silence."
Jynx, who had been listening with a bored expression, suddenly let out a sharp, appreciative laugh. She turned her focus away from Anya and fixed Stephen with a look of mock outrage.
"The 'Silence Rule'? Oi, Stephen, you're a right evil bastard, you know that?" Jynx grinned, popping a bubble. "That's a low blow. You know I can't shut my gob for more than ten seconds." She cracked her knuckles, a competitive fire igniting in her eyes as she glanced at Anya. "Alright then. You want psychological warfare? Let's see if your little Head Girl can make me crack. Let's see her try and break me."
Anya walked onto the set. She carried a prop in her hand: an old-fashioned, mechanical kitchen timer. It was cream-colored with bold black numbers.
She placed it on the desk with a heavy clunk, directly in Jynx’s eyeline.
"Ready?" Stephen called. "Action."
Anya didn't speak immediately. She smoothed her plaid skirt and looked down at Jynx with cool, academic disappointment.
"You really don't learn, do you?" Anya said, her voice soft, icy, and perfectly articulated. "First the dorms, now the library. You seem utterly incapable of going five minutes without opening that mouth of yours."
"Whatever," Jynx scoffed, rolling her eyes, though her toes flexed anxiously in the straps. "Just get on with it, Head Girl."
"Silence," Anya hissed.
She reached for the timer. She wound it past the ten-minute mark, letting the ratchet mechanism click loudly—crrr-crrr-crrr—before bringing it back to rest at exactly sixty seconds.
"One minute," Anya announced. "That is all I ask. One minute of absolute silence."
The clock began to tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound was crisp and rhythmic in the quiet studio.
"If you make a noise," Anya explained, her black nails tapping lightly on the wood of the bench, "not only do I reset the timer to the beginning... I add ten seconds to your sentence. Do you understand?"
Jynx swallowed hard. She nodded.
"Good."
Anya sat on the edge of the bench. She didn't attack. She lifted her right hand, extending her index finger. The obsidian tip of the stiletto nail caught the light.
She reached out to Jynx’s right foot. She found the spot Claire had showed her—the deep plantar nerve in the center of the arch.
She pressed.
She didn't scratch. She didn't rub. She purely drove the point of the nail into the soft meat of the arch and vibrated it, barely a millimeter of movement.
Wiggle.
"Mmmph!"
Jynx’s foot spasmed violently, her toes snapping shut like a bear trap. The noise was a sharp, strangled squeak from the back of her throat.
Anya pulled her hand back immediately. She looked at the timer. It had ticked down to fifty-five seconds.
She reached out and twisted the dial. Crrr-click.
"Reset," Anya said calmly. "And penalty."
She wound it past the minute mark. "One minute, ten seconds."
Jynx glared at her, sweat breaking out on her upper lip. "That’s cheat—"
"Ah," Anya interrupted, raising a finger. "Speaking is noise, Jynx."
Crrr-click.
"One minute, twenty seconds."
Anya went back to the foot. Same spot. Same nail.
She pressed the point in, held it there, and waited. The tickle wasn't moving; it was radiating, a hot wire growing deep inside the muscle. Jynx’s breathing hitched, her nostrils flaring. She squeezed her eyes shut, her jaw clenched tight as she shook her head from side to side.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound was a tiny hammer chipping away at her resolve.
Anya twisted the nail slightly, a minuscule rotation, like turning a key in a lock.
"Hk-khh-heee!"
The sound was a wet, strangled thing, a giggle that had been caught and crushed in the back of her throat. Jynx’s entire body went rigid, her stomach muscles spasming as she tried to swallow the reaction. She bucked once, hard, against the chair constraints, a violent, full-body tremor meant to contain the noise that had already escaped.
Anya sighed theatrically. She reached for the timer.
Crrr-click.
"One minute, thirty seconds."
Jynx’s eyes flew open, wide with panic. The time was stacking up. The silence was becoming a prison.
"You are making this very difficult for yourself," Anya murmured. "Let's try the other foot."
She moved to the left sole. She bypassed the arch and went for the webbing between the big toe and the second toe. She hooked the sharp, black point of her nail into the sensitive skin.
She didn't pull yet. She just rested it there.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Jynx was hyperventilating through her nose, her chest heaving. Huff-huff-huff.
Anya dragged the nail down. Slowly.
"EEEE!"
It was a tiny, high-pitched yip. Involuntary. Sharp.
Anya’s hand shot to the timer.
Crrr-click.
"One minute, forty seconds."
Jynx looked like she was going to cry. The frustration was tangible. She couldn't stop herself. Every time Anya touched her, the reaction bypassed her brain.
"Shall we go for two minutes?" Anya asked sweetly.
She abandoned the single finger. She brought both hands up. She fanned her fingers out, displaying all ten razor-sharp talons.
"I think you’ve proven you can't be trusted with silence," Anya whispered. "So let's just see how loud you can get."
She struck.
She dove into both soles simultaneously, abandoning the slow tease for a ferocious, high-speed scribbling motion. Her nails raked over the deep, soft wrinkles of Jynx’s soles, scraping and digging into the distinct ridges with merciless efficiency. Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch.
"AAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA! NO! NO! WAIT! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Jynx exploded. The suppression dam broke instantly.
"IT’S TOO SHARP! HA-HA-HA! AMETHYST! PLEASE! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"Reset!" Anya shouted over the laughter, reaching blindly for the timer and spinning the dial wildly. "Reset! Two minutes! Three minutes!"
She drove the hard knuckles of one hand into Jynx's arch—a blunt, crushing weight that felt like the muscle was being ground against bone. It was a deep, aching torment. Simultaneously, the sharp points of her other hand raked across the heel—a thousand tiny, sharp pinpricks of pure, frantic agony. The contrast between the dull, heavy pressure and the sharp, scratching fury was a neurological paradox, leaving Jynx's brain with no way to process the conflicting signals except to scream.
"I CAN'T! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE! I'M SORRY! I'LL BE QUIET! I SWEAR!"
"Too late!" Anya laughed—a cold, victorious sound. She grabbed Jynx’s toes, bending them backward to expose the balls of her feet to the onslaught. "You’re in detention forever!" she said triumphantly, skittering her talons over Jynx's taut sole.
"NOOOO! NOT FOREVE-HAAA-HAAA-HER! STOP! STOP IT! YIEEEE-HEEE!"
Jynx was thrashing so hard the heavy oak chair rocked on its legs. She was completely demolished, her toughness stripped away by the relentless ticking and the razor-sharp claws.
Stephen watched the monitor, zooming in on Jynx’s red, tear-streaked face as she howled.
"Amethyst," he whispered to himself. "You are lethal."
Next Chapter
The morning sun filtered through the blinds of Stephen’s kitchen, casting sharp, slanted bars of light across the marble island. It was a Tuesday, but for Anya, the days of the week were beginning to blur into a singular, buzzing hum of anticipation.
Stephen stood at the counter, a French press in one hand and a sleek, oversized tablet in the other. He didn't look like a suburban dad today; he looked like a stockbroker watching a bull market run.
"Sit," he commanded gently, sliding a steaming mug of black coffee toward her. "And look."
Anya hopped onto the high stool, confident in her movements. She wasn't wearing her cleaning clothes; she wore her skinny jeans and the Louboutins—her armor. She looked at the screen Stephen spun toward her.
It wasn't a spreadsheet. It was a graph, and the line was shooting joyfully, vertically upward.
"Your debut," Stephen said, a tone of genuine professional awe in his voice. "We’ve had more conversions in forty-eight hours than any new model launch in the last three years. The 'Amethyst' persona resonates. They love the transition from cool to chaotic."
Anya traced the line with her finger, feeling a thrill that was sharper than the caffeine. "So, what does this mean? More solo videos?"
Stephen set the French press down. "It means we escalate. Solo videos are the bread and butter, Anya. But the real money? The legacy content? That comes from dynamic friction. Conflict."
He swiped the screen, minimizing her graph and pulling up a new profile.
The video thumbnail showed a girl who was the aesthetic opposite of Anya’s polished, academic vibe. She was sprawled on a beanbag, chewing gum with her mouth open, wearing a neon-pink Adidas tracksuit and oversized gold hoop earrings. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, high ponytail that whipped around as she moved. She looked loud. She looked trouble.
"Meet Jynx," Stephen introduced. "She’s one of our top performers in the 'Brat' category. South London energy. Relentless, loud, and utterly chaotic. The fans adore her because she fights back."
Anya studied the girl. Jynx was laughing in the thumbnail, but her eyes had a hard, street-smart glint to them.
"I see," Anya said slowly. "And?"
"And," Stephen leaned in, his eyes gleaming. "The comments are already asking for it. They want the collision. Order versus Chaos. The Head Girl versus the Delinquent."
He tapped the screen, bringing up a storyboard document.
"I’ve drafted a two-part narrative arc. It’s titled 'The Education of Jynx.' It would be a versus match. In the first scene, Jynx holds the power. We set it in a dorm room. You’re the snitch—the 'Head Girl' who reported her for smoking. She ambushes you."
Anya raised an eyebrow. "Ambushes me how?"
"Low tech. Visceral," Stephen explained, using his hands to frame the scene. "She tackles you on the bed. She wraps you in your own duvet—a 'human burrito.' Your arms are pinned, your legs are swaddled. The only thing sticking out of the bottom..."
"My feet," Anya finished.
"Your bare, defenseless feet," Stephen nodded. "Jynx sits on your shins to lock you down, and she goes to town. She’s a physical tickler, Anya. She uses her nails, she digs, she mocks you while she does it. It’s humiliation. It’s the breakdown of your authority."
Anya felt a spike of nerves—the idea of being swaddled and helpless against someone aggressive was daunting—but the narrative logic was sound. "Okay. And the second scene?"
"The Revenge," Stephen grinned. "We switch power dynamics completely. Setting: The School Library. Jynx is in evening detention. You are the supervising Prefect."
He swiped to a reference image of a heavy wooden library chair.
"Jynx is failing to sit still. She’s being disruptive. So, you, as the figure of authority, decide to enforce the rules. You restrain her to the chair—wrists behind her back, ankles secured to a bench. To ensure she doesn't 'fidget'."
"Silence in the library," Anya murmured, the idea taking root.
"Precisely," Stephen snapped his fingers. "But here’s the game. You don't just tickle her. You punish the noise. Every time she laughs, squeals, or begs, you restart the timer or increase the intensity. Jynx is naturally loud; enforcing silence on her will drive her insane. It’s psychological warfare. You use your status as the calm, collected scholar to dismantle her."
Anya looked back at the photo of Jynx. The girl looked tough, leaning back with her arms crossed and a defiant, chewing-gum sneer plastered on her face. But the idea of tying her down in a quiet room and making her swallow that attitude... it sparked a dark, competitive hunger in Anya’s gut.
"The pay?" Anya asked.
Stephen wrote a figure on a notepad and slid it across the marble.
It was double her last session.
"Jynx is a premium co-star," Stephen added. "And Versus videos sell at a higher tier."
Anya looked at the number. Then she looked at the "Chavvy" girl in the tracksuit.
"I'll do it," Anya said, her voice firm. "I want to teach her a lesson."
"Excellent," Stephen smiled, looking like a man who had just arranged the fight of the century. "I'll send you her portfolio links. Do your homework, Anya. Jynx is... intense. You’ll want to know what you’re up against before Saturday."
---
That evening, the glow of Anya’s laptop turned her bedroom into a bunker. Outside, the London rain drummed a relentless, rhythmic beat against the glass, but inside, the room felt different than it had a month ago.
The corner where she used to stack her cleaning supplies—the bucket, the mop, the worn-out tabard—was empty. She had handed the keys back to Stephen on Monday, explaining that her "schedule" had become too demanding. He had accepted them with a knowing smile, fully aware that "Amethyst" was currently generating more revenue in an hour than Anya the Cleaner earned in a month.
Financial security was a relief, but reading the storyboard for the new shoot, Anya felt a different kind of poverty. She felt under-equipped.
She opened the first link Stephen had sent: Jynx vs. The Fresher.
The video opened with a handheld, shaky-cam style. Jynx dominated the frame. She wore a bright yellow tracksuit top, zipped down enough to show a flash of attitude, and huge gold hoop earrings that swung violently as she moved. She was straddling a smaller, pale girl who was tied to a bedframe.
"Thought you could ignore me, yeah?" Jynx sneered, snapping her gum. Her accent was thick, sharp South London—a stark contrast to Anya’s soft, Eastern-European tones. "Thought you was too good to pay the toll?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She dove in.
Anya watched, mesmerizingly horrified. Jynx was a physical storm. She used her nails. She dug them into the girl's ribs with a piston-like rhythm, laughing manically along with her victim. She was merciless. She would stop for a split second, let the girl gasp "please," and then dive back in harder, mocking her the entire time.
"Look at you! Squirming! Pathetic! Go on, cry about it!"
Anya swallowed hard. The sheer energy was terrifying. Jynx didn't just tickle; she brawled. The idea of being wrapped in a duvet, helpless while that chaotic force sat on her legs... Anya pulled her own knees up to her chest, a phantom itch running along her soles.
She closed that tab and opened the next one. Jynx: The Endurance Test.
This time, Jynx was the one in the chair.
"Okay," Anya whispered to herself. "Let's see you break."
The video started. Jynx was restrained in a heavy wooden stock, her bare feet displayed to the camera.
Anya leaned in. Jynx’s feet were fascinating in a car-crash sort of way. They weren't the pale, elegant porcelain of "Amethyst." They were darker, broader, and the soles looked incredibly soft. When Jynx flexed her toes, the skin was so plush that deep canyons and ridges appeared in her arches—a map of extreme sensitivity.
The tickler—Stephen's hand with a bottle of baby oil—began to work.
"AH-HA-HA-HA-HA! OI! THAT'S COLD! HA-HA-HA!"
Jynx exploded instantly. Her laughter was loud, barking, and infectious. She thrashed against the stocks, her head whipping back and forth, her ponytail lashing the air. But as Anya watched, she noticed something disturbing.
Jynx was screaming. She was red-faced. She was drooling slightly. But her eyes? Her eyes were mocking the camera.
"Is that all you got? HA-HA-HA! My Nan tickles harder than that! EEEE-HEEE!"
She never stopped talking. She weaponized her own suffering. She turned the noise into a shield. Even when the tickler brought out a vibrating wand and Jynx was howling, "NO NO NO ST-ST-STOP!", she was still projecting an aura of untouchable toughness. She was a rubber ball—you could squeeze her, but she would just bounce back the second you let go.
Anya paused the video. The silence in her room felt heavy.
She looked at her own hands. Her fingers were long, manicured, elegant. The hands of a scholar. The hands of a girl who turned pages and typed essays. These were not the hands of a tormentor. They looked soft. Ineffective.
"I can't beat her," Anya realized, a cold dread settling in her stomach. "Not like this."
If she tried to match Jynx’s energy in the library scene, she would lose. If she tried to be aggressive, Jynx would just laugh at her, not from the sensation. She imagined Jynx tied to the chair, giggling at Anya’s polite attempts to dig into those Jynx's wrinkled soles.
"What's wrong, posh girl! Afraid you'll break a nail? HA-HA-HA!"
The humiliation would be worse than the ink. It would be professional suicide. The "Head Girl" would look like a substitute teacher who couldn't control the unruly class.
Anya grabbed her phone. The panic was rising, tight and hot in her throat. She needed strategy. She needed someone who knew how to dismantle a bomb without it going off in her face.
She scrolled past Stephen’s name. This wasn't a producer problem. This was a technique problem.
She tapped the contact saved as Mistress Claire.
Anya: Hi Claire. Stephen just pitched me the new arc. He wants me to go up against a model called Jynx. And he wants me to dominate her in the second half. I’ve only ever been the one in the chair... I’m terrified I’m going to look weak next to her.
She stared at the screen, chewing her lip. The three dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again.
Claire: Jynx? Bold choice by Stephen. She’s a handful even for experienced Doms, let alone for your debut as a ler. She's as ticklish as they come, but she also has a lot of resolve.
Claire: But don't panic. Chaos can be managed if you have the right tools. Why don’t you come over to my place on Wednesday afternoon? I’ll have wine, and we can go over some containment strategies. Anyway, I want to hear all about the Amethyst launch.
Anya let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
Anya: Thank you. That would be amazing.
Claire: Texting you the address now. Wear something comfortable. We have work to do.
---
The address Claire had sent belonged to a sleek, glass-fronted building in Kensington that smelled of lilies and old money. The elevator opened directly into her penthouse, a sprawling space of polished concrete floors, low Italian furniture, and a floor-to-ceiling view of the rainy London skyline.
Claire stood by a marble sideboard, pouring a rich, dark red wine into two oversized glasses. She wore a charcoal cashmere sweater and black leggings, tucked into knee-high leather riding boots.
"You wore the armor," Claire noted with a small smile, her eyes dropping to Anya’s feet.
Anya stood in the entryway, the click of her Louboutins echoing on the concrete. Despite Claire’s advice to dress comfortably, she hadn’t been able to leave them behind. They were the battery pack for her confidence.
"I feel... sharper in them," Anya admitted, walking over to accept the wine. "Like I'm stepping into the role before I even turn on the camera."
"Good," Claire toasted her, the crystal ringing softly. "That’s the first lesson. The fetish isn't just for them. It’s for you. Tell me about the 'Casting Couch' shoot. Stephen sent me the rough cut of the Amethyst intro. You looked... different."
"I felt different," Anya said, sinking into one of the low leather armchairs. She crossed her legs, the red sole of her right shoe vivid against the dark room. "When he did the surprise attack with the oil... usually, that panic makes me feel small. But this time? I knew the camera was watching. I knew thousands of people would see me lose control. And instead of shrinking, I felt... huge. Like, even my helplessness was a power move because I was letting them see it."
"That’s the switch flipping," Claire nodded, leaning back against the sideboard. "You realized that the person commanding the attention is the one in control, regardless of who is laughing. But now," her expression sharpened, shifting into tactical mode, "Stephen wants you to be the one causing the panic. Tell me about the scenario."
"It's a grudge match," Anya explained, leaning forward. "Stephen wants to invoke the 'Scholar' persona fully. Jynx wraps me in a duvet first—classic dorm prank bullying. But for the revenge..." Anya paused, a small smile touching her lips. "I catch her in detention in the library. I tie her down. And I enforce a 'Silence Rule.' Every time she laughs or squeals, I punish her."
Claire’s eyebrows rose, a look of genuine appreciation crossing her face. "Stephen is a devil. That is... exceptionally cruel. And perfect for Jynx."
"Why?"
"Because Jynx is a noise machine," Claire said, swirling her wine. "She uses her volume as a weapon. She screams, she taunts, she laughs like a hyena. It overwhelms the ler. It makes you feel like you aren't hurting her, just annoying her. But if you take away her voice? If you force her to bottle that energy up inside?" Claire smirked. "She’ll implode. You’ll be fighting her on a battlefield where she has no ammunition."
She set her wine down and walked over to the seating area.
"But the concept is only as good as the execution, Anya. Stephen tells me you’ve never tickled anyone before."
"Never," Anya admitted, look down at her hands. "I have no idea what I'm doing. I tried to practice on a cushion last night, and I felt ridiculous."
"A cushion doesn't have nerves," Claire said briskly. She sat down on the leather ottoman directly in front of Anya’s chair. "Put your glass down. We’re doing a practical."
Anya set her wine on the side table, her heart rate kicking up a notch.
"Give me your foot," Claire commanded. "Keep the shoe on for now. I want to show you the difference between surface and depth."
Anya extended her leg. Claire caught her heel in one hand. The grip was firm, professional, yet undeniably possessive.
"Most amateurs tickle like this," Claire said. She ran her fingernails lightly, rapidly over the nylons covering Anya's instep. It was a skittering, itchy sensation.
"Eee! Yeah," Anya giggled, twitching her foot. "That’s itchy."
"It's annoying," Claire corrected dismissively. "It creates a surface reaction. A giggle. But to break someone like Jynx? You need to bypass the skin entirely."
Before Anya could react, Claire hooked her fingers under the heel of the Louboutin and slid it off with a single, decisive motion. She placed the expensive shoe onto the rug beside her. Anya’s foot, now clad only in the sheer nylon, felt suddenly naked and vulnerable.
Claire shifted her grip, capturing the now-exposed foot. She moved her thumb to the center of Anya’s arch. She didn't scratch. She pressed, the sheer fabric doing nothing to cushion the sharp pressure. She dug her thumb deep into the plantar fascia and vibrated it with a slow, grinding intensity.
"AH! Ooh! That’s—!" Anya gasped, her toes curling hard, the knuckles turning white under the sheer nylon. The sensation wasn't an itch; it was a jolt of electricity that shot up her calf. It was heavy, aching, and overwhelmingly ticklish.
"That," Claire said, holding the pressure as Anya squirmed, "is the nerve. You aren't tickling the skin; you are vibrating the tension in the muscle itself. Jynx doesn't have tough feet—on the contrary, her soles are incredibly soft—but she has tough resolve. She uses noise and bravado to shield herself. A surface tickle won't break her; she'll just laugh it off. You have to bypass her defenses and go straight for the deep nerve. You have to hunt for that wire."
She released Anya’s foot. "Now. Your turn."
Claire reached down to her own knee-high leather boot.
Zzzzzzzip.
The sound was loud in the quiet penthouse. Claire peeled the leather shaft down her calf. She gripped the heel and pulled. With a heavy thud, the boot hit the floor.
Claire wasn't wearing socks. Her foot was bare, pale, and exquisitely groomed. Her arch was incredibly high, almost dancer-like, and her toes were long and dextrous. She lifted her leg and placed her bare foot squarely in Anya’s lap, resting her heel on Anya’s denim-clad thigh.
"Touch it," Claire ordered.
Anya froze. It was one thing to be touched; it was another to touch the Mentor. It felt like crossing a forbidden line. The foot in her lap was warm, the skin smooth but firm.
Anya reached out tentatively. She placed her hand on Claire’s sole. It was dauntingly soft.
"Don't pet me, I'm not a cat," Claire scolded gently. "Find the structure. Squeeze."
Anya tightened her grip, wrapping her fingers around the ball of the foot and the heel.
"Better," Claire said. "Now. Find the spot I just showed you. The center of the arch. Don't scratch. Dig."
Anya moved her thumb to the hollow of Claire’s foot. She pressed.
Claire didn't move. She just watched Anya with cool, analytical eyes. "Harder. You have student hands, Anya. You’re being polite. Jynx is a bully. If you are polite, she will eat you alive. Assert yourself."
Anya bit her lip. She thought of the "silence in the library." She thought of Jynx sneering in the video. She channeled a flash of frustration and pushed. She drove her thumb hard into the soft, yielding flesh of Claire’s arch and wiggled it aggressively.
Claire’s toes snapped shut.
"Nnngh!"
A sharp, involuntary sound escaped Claire’s throat. Her foot jerked on Anya’s lap, the muscles in her leg bunching tight as the sensation hit the nerve.
Anya stopped, eyes widening. "I— I’m sorry!"
"Don't you dare apologize," Claire said, breathlessly, a grin spreading across her face. "That was it. Did you feel the difference? Did you feel the muscle span under your thumb?"
"Yes," Anya said, looking at her hand with new respect. "It felt... tight. Like a guitar string."
"Exactly. That is your target," Claire breathed, flexing her toes to work out the tension. "You found it. But..."
She looked at Anya’s fingernails—short, neat, practical.
"You need more than thumbs. Jynx has such plush, deep pads on her soles; she absorbs blunt pressure like a sponge. To really shock her system… to cut through that wall of noise she puts up… you need claws."
Claire swung her leg off Anya’s lap and reached for her phone.
"Are you free for the rest of the afternoon?"
"Yes," Anya nodded.
"Good," Claire stood up, sliding her foot back into her boot with a fluid motion. "Grab your coat. My favorite spa in Mayfair is expecting us in thirty minutes. You and I are getting the full treatment. And you, my dear, are getting a set of reinforced, stiletto-tip acrylics."
She winked, grabbing her purse.
"If you're going to be a villain, you might as well look the part."
---
The spa, simply titled L'Oasi, was tucked away on a side street in Mayfair that whispered wealth rather than shouted it. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of cucumber water and expensive polymers.
The receptionist looked up, her professional smile widening into genuine panic-tinged respect the moment she saw who walked through the glass doors.
"Claire," she breathed. "We weren't expecting—"
"I know, darling. Impromptu emergency," Claire waved a dismissive hand. "Is Alessandro in?"
"For you? Always."
Moments later, a curtain swept back and a man emerged. He was in his fifties, impeccably groomed, wearing a fitted black tunic that couldn't hide his flamboyant energy. He had silver hair swept back like a lion’s mane and eyes that twinkled with mischief.
"The Queen returns!" he declaimed, his Italian accent thick and rich like heavy cream. He bypassed the reception desk entirely to embrace Claire, kissing both her cheeks. "It has been too long. My hands have been idle without your arches to inspire them."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Alessandro," Claire smirked, patting his arm. "But today is strictly business. I have brought a protégé."
She stepped aside, revealing Anya.
Alessandro turned, his eyes narrowing in professional assessment. He took Anya’s hand, inspecting her fingers, then his gaze dropped—instinctively, professionally, hungrily—to her shoes.
"Ah," he murmured. "Fresh blood. Good bone structure. A size ten, if I am not mistaken? Exquisite."
"This is Amethyst," Claire introduced, using the stage name. "And she is about to go to war. We need the full works, Alessandro. But specifically... I need you to give her my signature claws. Stilettos. Reinforced tips."
Alessandro’s eyebrows shot up. "The 'disciplinary' set? For her?" He looked at Anya’s soft features and grinned. "The quiet ones are always the most dangerous. Come. My private suite is open."
---
The private suite was a sanctuary of white marble and gold fixtures. Anya and Claire were settled into side-by-side massage chairs. A young female technician, nervous and silent, began soaking Anya’s feet in a basin of rose petals.
But Alessandro ignored the junior staff. He pulled his stool up to Claire’s chair. He lifted Claire’s bare foot as if handling a Faberge egg, resting it on his towel-draped knee.
"The usual?" he asked, his thumb already working a knot out of Claire’s sole with a reverence that bordered on worship.
"Please," Claire sighed, leaning back and closing her eyes. "And while you marinate me, I need you to sculpt Amethyst’s hands. She’s filming a 'Silence in the Library' scene in a few days against Jynx."
Alessandro let out a low whistle as he began to exfoliate Claire’s heel. "Jynx? That chaotic little hurricane?"
After applying a final, thick layer of moisturizing oil to Claire's soles, he wrapped each foot carefully in a series of hot, steaming towels, creating a warm, fragrant cocoon.
"Let the oils work their wonders," he winked at Claire, before wheeling his stool over to Anya’s side. He positioned himself so he could work on her hands while the junior tech handled her pedicure.
He took Anya’s right hand. "So, Piccola," he said, picking up a file. "You want to make them scream, yes?"
"I want to make them listen," Anya corrected, channeling a flash of her new persona.
Alessandro laughed, delighted. "I like her, Claire. She has fire."
He began to work. It wasn't a manicure; it was construction. He applied the forms, building long, tapering points that extended well past her natural fingertips. Anya felt the fine, vibrating rasp of the file against the acrylic, a strange sensation that traveled down her finger to the knuckle. It felt like her very hands were being reshaped, their purpose altered. As he worked the final file, sculpting the tip into that perfect, diabolical point, he spoke without looking up.
"The secret, Piccola," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, "is not the sharpness. It is the focus."
He held her finished index finger up to the light. The nail was a glossy black stiletto, tapering to a wickedly fine point. But on close inspection, the very tip wasn't a razor's edge. It was a pinhead, a tiny, hardened sphere of acrylic, polished to a glass-like smoothness. It wouldn't cut. It would concentrate every ounce of pressure into a single, agonizing nerve.
Anya touched the tip with the thumb of her other hand. It felt like pressing down on the head of a nail. Solid. Unforgiving.
Alessandro met her eyes in the mirror. "An instrument for finding truth," he grinned.
While the acrylics cured under the UV lamp—casting a strange, violet glow over the scene and bathing her hands in an odd, penetrating warmth—Alessandro returned to Claire’s feet. He unwrapped the towels with a flourish, revealing skin that was now impossibly soft and glowing.
"Ready for the final touch, my Queen?" he asked, holding up a bottle of nail polish. He painted her toes a deep, oxblood red. But he took his time. He lingered. He used his pinkie to tickle the very center of her arch, just for a second, watching Claire’s toes twitch involuntarily.
"Behave, Alessandro," Claire warned lazily.
"I cannot help it," Alessandro murmured, his eyes gleaming with fanatical adoration. "I watched your new upload last night. Twice. The arch control was magnificent. I simply had to verify the sensitivity for myself."
Claire offered a small, knowing smile—the kind reserved for only the oldest of friends. "You are lucky I’ve been sitting in your chair since you were a junior technician scrubbing foot baths, Alessandro. If we didn't have ten years of history, you would lose a finger for that."
"Yes, well I am a Senior Aesthetician now," he said, puffing out his chest dramatically, "and as your biggest fan, it is a perk of the job."
With a final, artistic flourish, Alessandro applied a clear top coat to Claire's toes and gently set her foot down. Just then, the timer on the UV lamp at Anya's station let out a soft, polite beep.
"Ah, the prodigy is cured," Alessandro declared, effortlessly wheeling his stool back to Anya's side. He carefully removed her hands from the device, inspecting the long, tapering acrylics. "The structure is sound. Now, for the final coat of armor."
He painted the long, deadly talons a glossy, jet black.
"Hold them up," Alessandro commanded.
Anya lifted her hands. The nails were terrifyingly beautiful. Long, tapering to a needle-point, black as ink. They clicked together with a hard, synthetic sound. Click-clack.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a predator.
"How do they feel?" Claire asked, sitting up and inspecting her own perfect pedicure.
Anya flexed her fingers. She imagined Jynx’s wrinkled soles under these tips. She imagined the power of just threatening to touch.
"They feel..." Anya smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. "Lethal."
"Perfect," Claire stood up, sliding her freshly painted feet back into her boots. "Alessandro, put it on my account. And add a generous tip for yourself. You’ve outdone yourself."
"For you, anything," Alessandro bowed, kissing Claire’s hand, then Anya’s. He looked Anya in the eye. "Go get her, Tiger. Make her beg."
---
The Green Room was buzzing with a nervous electricity. Stephen had transformed his living room into a staging area, complete with a clothing rack, a table of fruit and water, and a large whiteboard displaying the day’s shots.
Anya sat on the edge of the sofa, dressed in her "Head Girl" costume: a crisp white shirt buttoned to the collar, a grey pleated skirt, and her jet-black nails resting conspicuously on her knees. She felt calm. The tips of her fingers were heavy, a constant reminder of the weapons she carried.
Across from her, sprawling on a beanbag chair, was Jynx.
Jynx looked exactly like her videos, only louder. She was wearing a neon-pink velour tracksuit that seemed to vibrate under the room lights. Her hair was scraped back into a high, tight ponytail, and enormous gold hoop earrings swung against her jaw as she chewed a piece of gum with rhythmic aggression.
"Right, listen up," Stephen clapped his hands, stepping in front of the whiteboard. "This is the big one. The fans have been screaming for this match-up since the teaser dropped. The narrative is 'Order versus Chaos.' We start with Chaos."
He tapped the first box on the board.
"Scene One: The Dorm. Amethyst, you’re the snitch. You reported Jynx to the Dean. You’re studying on your bed, minding your own business. Jynx, you storm in. You’re angry. You want payback."
Jynx popped a bubble of gum. Snap. "Standard procedure, then. I tackle her?"
"You tackle her," Stephen confirmed. "You wrestle her down. It needs to be messy. Lots of struggle. Then, you grab the duvet. I want the 'Burrito Wrap.' Tight. Pin her arms, pin her legs. Isolate the feet at the end of the bed."
Jynx looked Amethyst up and down, a smirk playing on her lips. "Easy work. She looks light. I'll fold her like laundry."
"Once she’s wrapped," Stephen continued, ignoring the jibe, "you sit on her shins to lock her down. Then you go to town. I want verbal humiliation. Mock her for snitching. Mock her for being sensitive. Amethyst... I need you to sell the panic. You’re the Head Girl losing control."
"Understood," Anya nodded coolly.
"Scene Two," Stephen moved to the next box. "The Revenge. Library Detention. We flip the script. Jynx is restrained. Amethyst enforces the 'Silence Rule.' We’ll cover the specifics of the restraint when we reset the room, but the vibe is cold, clinical authority."
"Got it," Jynx shrugged, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of her own demise. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and fixing Anya with a predatory stare.
"So," Jynx drawled, her accent thick and sharp. "You’re the new 'it' girl, yeah? The Scholar?"
Anya met her gaze. "That's what they say."
"I watched your intro," Jynx chuckled, shaking her head. "Cute. Very posed. But have you ever had a real tickling? Not Stephen dabbing you with oil, but a proper South London scrubbing?"
"I can't say I have," Anya replied neutrally.
"Shame," Jynx grinned, her eyes dropping to Anya’s bare feet resting on the carpet. "Because I don't stop when you squeak, darling. I’ve been looking forward to this. Your soles looked... creamy in that video. So soft. Like dough." She flexed her hands, displaying square-tipped, hot pink acrylics. "I bet I can make you cry in under a minute. I’m gonna shred that dignity of yours."
It was a good line. It was designed to intimidate. A week ago, Anya would have flinched. She would have tucked her feet under the sofa.
Instead, Anya said nothing. She didn't blink.
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her right hand to her face. With a languid, almost bored movement, she used the tip of her index finger to scratch a phantom itch just beneath her left eye.
Click.
The sound of the stiletto nail hitting her cheekbone was tiny, but sharp.
The light caught the obsidian black polish. It caught the terrifying, needle-thin point of the reinforced tip Alessandro had sculpted. It was a dagger, not a fingernail.
Anya lowered her hand, letting the movement hang in the air. She saw Jynx’s eyes track the motion. She saw the gum-chewing slow down for a fraction of a second as Jynx registered the weapon.
"You can try," Anya said softly, a small, icy smile touching her lips. "But save some energy for the library, Jynx. It’s a long detention."
Jynx’s eyes narrowed. The bravado didn't vanish—she wasn't an amateur—but a flicker of wariness appeared behind the defiance. She had recognized the threat.
"Alright," Stephen interrupted, sensing the tension peaking perfectly. "Let's harness that energy. Set is hot. Places, please."
---
The "Dorm Room" set was a masterpiece of manufactured clutter. A single bed was pushed against the wall, covered in a heavy, floral duvet that looked straight out of a university catalog. Textbooks were scattered on the floor next to an overflowing laundry basket.
"Rolling," Stephen called from behind the camera rig. "And... Action!"
Anya lay on her stomach on the bed in 'the pose', her legs kicking idly in the air. She was reading a thick Economics textbook, a highlighter pen in her hand. She looked the picture of studious innocence.
SLAM.
The door flew open.
Jynx didn't walk in; she exploded into the room.
"There she is!" Jynx shouted, pointing a pink-tipped finger accusingly. "The little snitch!"
Anya scrambled to sit up, dropping the book. "I— You’re not supposed to be in here!"
"Not supposed to be smoking either, was I?" Jynx sneered, advancing on the bed. "But you went crying to the Dean, din'cha? Teacher's Pet!"
"I was enforcing the rules!" Anya protested, backing up against the headboard, pulling her knees to her chest.
"I’ll show you rules!"
Jynx lunged. She dove onto the mattress, leading with her shoulder. She slammed into Anya, driving the breath out of her with a sharp Oof!
The struggle was a frantic, messy brawl on the narrow mattress. Anya, starting on her stomach, tried to buck and twist away, but Jynx used her superior weight, forcing Anya to flip over onto her back with a heavy grunt. For a terrifying second, Jynx pinned Anya’s wrists against the pillow above her head, grinning down at her.
"Time for bed, Princess!"
Before Anya could use her legs to kick, Jynx released her wrists and grabbed the edge of the heavy duvet. Instead of rolling, Jynx pulled the entire thick quilt over Anya, using her body weight to press it down while she furiously tucked the edges under Anya's body, trapping her arms flat against her sides. She grabbed the trailing edge and pulled it taut across Anya's legs, swaddling her into a tight, helpless cylinder of cotton.
"No! Get off! Hhh-mph!"
Jynx scrambled down the length of the "burrito." She grabbed the bottom of the duvet and yanked it up, exposing Anya’s feet and ankles to the cool studio air.
"Gotcha," Jynx panted, a manic grin on her face.
With a heavy thud, she sat down hard on Anya’s shins. The weight was immense. Anya tried to kick, but she was anchored. Her feet dangled uselessly off the end of the bed.
Jynx leaned forward, cracking her knuckles. Instinctively trying to pull away from the threat, Anya flexed her ankles hard, pulling her toes back toward her body. The futile, panicked movement had the opposite effect she intended: it stretched her arches taut and rotated her soles to face the ceiling, presenting them like a platter.
Jynx seized the opportunity and she dove in with both hands, her square-tipped nails clawing directly into the centers of Anya’s taut soles.
"AAA-HAAA-HAAA-HAAA! NO! JYNX! STO-HO-HO-HOP!"
Anya’s head whipped back against the pillow. The sensation was overwhelming. Jynx wasn't using technique; she was using chaos. She was scribbling aggressively all over the sensitive skin, her fingers moving in a blur of motion.
"Look at them twitch!" Jynx cackled, her voice high and mocking. "Look at the little snitch wiggle! Tickle-tickle-tickle!"
She dug her thumbs into the balls of Anya’s feet and vibrated them violently.
"EEEE-HEEE-HEEE! GET O-HO-HO-OFF! I CAN'T! I CAN'T! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Anya’s laughter was a high, desperate shriek. Inside the duvet cocoon, her body was thrashing, but the swaddle absorbed all her energy. She was completely helpless.
"What's the matter? Can't handle it?" Jynx shouted over the screams. She shifted her attack, grabbing Anya’s big toes and pulling them apart to rake her nails through the webbing.
"NOOOO! NOT THERE! NOT THE TOES! AAAA-HAAA-HAAA! P-PLEASE! I'M SORRY! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"She's sorry!" Jynx looked at the camera, her eyes wide and gleeful. "Did you hear that? The Head Girl is sorry!"
She leaned forward, putting her face right next to Anya’s writhing soles. "Sorry isn't good enough! I want tears! I want you begging!"
She began to 'spider' her fingers down the sides of Anya’s feet, finding the ultra-sensitive skin near the heel.
"YIIIII-IKES! NO! NO! NO! HA-HA-HA-HA! SOMEONE! HELP MEEEE! HA-HA-HA!"
"No-one's gonna help you!" Jynx laughed, grabbing both heels and shaking them. "You're mine!"
The scene continued for five agonizing minutes. Jynx was relentless, switching from scratching to squeezing to frantic, scribbling tickles. Anya was reduced to a sobbing, laughing mess, her face flushed crimson, sweat dampening her hairline.
"Give up!" Jynx demanded, digging her knuckles into the arches. "Say you're a loser!"
"I'M A LO-HO-HO-SER! HA-HA-HA! I'M A LOSER! STOP! PLEASE ST-HAAA-HAAA-P!"
"Good girl," Jynx grinned. "But I'm not done yet!"
And she dove back in.
"Come on!" Jynx roared, her hands blurring into a frenzy on Anya’s insteps. "Say it! Say 'Jynx is the Queen!'"
"JYNX IS... HA-HA-HA-HA! I CAN'T! I CAN'T BREATHE!"
"SAY IT!" Jynx dug her knuckles into the delicate arch, vibrating her fist with brutal force.
"JYNX IS THE QUEEN! THE QUEEN! HA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! PLEASE ST-HAAA-HAAA-P!"
Anya’s voice cracked into a high, hysterical sob, her head thrashing against the pillow, sweat matting her hair to her forehead. She was completely broken, a sobbing, laughing mess of surrender.
"And... Cut!" Stephen shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife.
Jynx stopped instantly. Her hands, which a second ago had been instruments of torture, lifted away from Anya’s soles. She grabbed the edge of the duvet and peeled it back, unrolling the swaddle with surprising gentleness.
"You alright, babes?" Jynx asked, her voice dropping the jagged, aggressive edge. She sounded breathless herself, her chest heaving under the pink tracksuit.
Anya lay spreadeagled on the mattress, gulping down air. Her feet felt like they were vibrating, glowing with a phantom heat. She nodded weakly, wiping her eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just... wow."
Jynx offered a hand and pulled Anya into a sitting position. "You took that like a champ," she said, nodding respectfully. "I was going full throttle there at the end. Most freshers tap out by minute three. You’ve got serious stamina."
"Thanks, Jynx," Anya managed a shaky laugh, rubbing her sore ankles. "Guess I am tougher than I look. But god, you wrap tight."
"Trade secret," Jynx winked. "Come on. Stephen’s ordered Nando’s. You need protein if you’re gonna destroy me in act two."
---
The Green Room felt like a sanctuary. Anya sat on the sofa, picking at a grilled chicken wrap, watching Jynx re-adjust her ponytail in the mirror. It was strange to see the "Delinquent" wiping hot sauce off her lip and checking her phone messages.
"So," Jynx said, turning around. "Revenge time next. You nervous?"
"A little," Anya admitted. "I’ve never been the 'ler' before."
"Don't overthink it," Jynx advised, popping a fresh piece of gum. "You’ve got the look. And those nails?" She gestured to Anya’s jet-black talons. "Those are scary. Use them. If I’m loud—and I will be loud—don't let it rattle you. Just dig deeper. Make me regret opening my mouth."
Stephen poked his head around the door. "Ladies. The Library is open. We’re on in five."
---
The transformation of the studio was jarring. The messy, colorful dorm was gone. In its place was a moody, shadow-filled set. Studio lights were gelled to create the amber glow of evening. A heavy oak desk stood in the center, and behind it, a solitary, straight-backed wooden chair facing the camera, with a low bench positioned in front of it.
"Jynx, take your seat," Stephen directed.
Jynx sat in the wooden chair. Stephen moved efficiently to secure her. He pulled her arms behind the back of the chair, locking her wrists in heavy, padded leather cuffs. She was chest-forward, completely exposed.
Then came the legs. He lifted her feet onto the low bench. He strapped her ankles down with thick, decisive belts. Her legs were extended, her bare feet displayed perfectly for the camera.
Jynx’s soles were different from Anya’s. They were tanned and broad, but the skin appeared startlingly soft. As she flexed her toes nervously, the plush pads of her arches folded into deep, intricate fissures. It was a landscape of sensitivity.
Stephen stepped back. "Okay. The scenario: Jynx, you’re in detention. You’ve been disruptive. Amethyst, you are the Prefect. The rule is simple: Silence."
Jynx, who had been listening with a bored expression, suddenly let out a sharp, appreciative laugh. She turned her focus away from Anya and fixed Stephen with a look of mock outrage.
"The 'Silence Rule'? Oi, Stephen, you're a right evil bastard, you know that?" Jynx grinned, popping a bubble. "That's a low blow. You know I can't shut my gob for more than ten seconds." She cracked her knuckles, a competitive fire igniting in her eyes as she glanced at Anya. "Alright then. You want psychological warfare? Let's see if your little Head Girl can make me crack. Let's see her try and break me."
Anya walked onto the set. She carried a prop in her hand: an old-fashioned, mechanical kitchen timer. It was cream-colored with bold black numbers.
She placed it on the desk with a heavy clunk, directly in Jynx’s eyeline.
"Ready?" Stephen called. "Action."
Anya didn't speak immediately. She smoothed her plaid skirt and looked down at Jynx with cool, academic disappointment.
"You really don't learn, do you?" Anya said, her voice soft, icy, and perfectly articulated. "First the dorms, now the library. You seem utterly incapable of going five minutes without opening that mouth of yours."
"Whatever," Jynx scoffed, rolling her eyes, though her toes flexed anxiously in the straps. "Just get on with it, Head Girl."
"Silence," Anya hissed.
She reached for the timer. She wound it past the ten-minute mark, letting the ratchet mechanism click loudly—crrr-crrr-crrr—before bringing it back to rest at exactly sixty seconds.
"One minute," Anya announced. "That is all I ask. One minute of absolute silence."
The clock began to tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound was crisp and rhythmic in the quiet studio.
"If you make a noise," Anya explained, her black nails tapping lightly on the wood of the bench, "not only do I reset the timer to the beginning... I add ten seconds to your sentence. Do you understand?"
Jynx swallowed hard. She nodded.
"Good."
Anya sat on the edge of the bench. She didn't attack. She lifted her right hand, extending her index finger. The obsidian tip of the stiletto nail caught the light.
She reached out to Jynx’s right foot. She found the spot Claire had showed her—the deep plantar nerve in the center of the arch.
She pressed.
She didn't scratch. She didn't rub. She purely drove the point of the nail into the soft meat of the arch and vibrated it, barely a millimeter of movement.
Wiggle.
"Mmmph!"
Jynx’s foot spasmed violently, her toes snapping shut like a bear trap. The noise was a sharp, strangled squeak from the back of her throat.
Anya pulled her hand back immediately. She looked at the timer. It had ticked down to fifty-five seconds.
She reached out and twisted the dial. Crrr-click.
"Reset," Anya said calmly. "And penalty."
She wound it past the minute mark. "One minute, ten seconds."
Jynx glared at her, sweat breaking out on her upper lip. "That’s cheat—"
"Ah," Anya interrupted, raising a finger. "Speaking is noise, Jynx."
Crrr-click.
"One minute, twenty seconds."
Anya went back to the foot. Same spot. Same nail.
She pressed the point in, held it there, and waited. The tickle wasn't moving; it was radiating, a hot wire growing deep inside the muscle. Jynx’s breathing hitched, her nostrils flaring. She squeezed her eyes shut, her jaw clenched tight as she shook her head from side to side.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound was a tiny hammer chipping away at her resolve.
Anya twisted the nail slightly, a minuscule rotation, like turning a key in a lock.
"Hk-khh-heee!"
The sound was a wet, strangled thing, a giggle that had been caught and crushed in the back of her throat. Jynx’s entire body went rigid, her stomach muscles spasming as she tried to swallow the reaction. She bucked once, hard, against the chair constraints, a violent, full-body tremor meant to contain the noise that had already escaped.
Anya sighed theatrically. She reached for the timer.
Crrr-click.
"One minute, thirty seconds."
Jynx’s eyes flew open, wide with panic. The time was stacking up. The silence was becoming a prison.
"You are making this very difficult for yourself," Anya murmured. "Let's try the other foot."
She moved to the left sole. She bypassed the arch and went for the webbing between the big toe and the second toe. She hooked the sharp, black point of her nail into the sensitive skin.
She didn't pull yet. She just rested it there.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Jynx was hyperventilating through her nose, her chest heaving. Huff-huff-huff.
Anya dragged the nail down. Slowly.
"EEEE!"
It was a tiny, high-pitched yip. Involuntary. Sharp.
Anya’s hand shot to the timer.
Crrr-click.
"One minute, forty seconds."
Jynx looked like she was going to cry. The frustration was tangible. She couldn't stop herself. Every time Anya touched her, the reaction bypassed her brain.
"Shall we go for two minutes?" Anya asked sweetly.
She abandoned the single finger. She brought both hands up. She fanned her fingers out, displaying all ten razor-sharp talons.
"I think you’ve proven you can't be trusted with silence," Anya whispered. "So let's just see how loud you can get."
She struck.
She dove into both soles simultaneously, abandoning the slow tease for a ferocious, high-speed scribbling motion. Her nails raked over the deep, soft wrinkles of Jynx’s soles, scraping and digging into the distinct ridges with merciless efficiency. Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch.
"AAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA! NO! NO! WAIT! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Jynx exploded. The suppression dam broke instantly.
"IT’S TOO SHARP! HA-HA-HA! AMETHYST! PLEASE! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"Reset!" Anya shouted over the laughter, reaching blindly for the timer and spinning the dial wildly. "Reset! Two minutes! Three minutes!"
She drove the hard knuckles of one hand into Jynx's arch—a blunt, crushing weight that felt like the muscle was being ground against bone. It was a deep, aching torment. Simultaneously, the sharp points of her other hand raked across the heel—a thousand tiny, sharp pinpricks of pure, frantic agony. The contrast between the dull, heavy pressure and the sharp, scratching fury was a neurological paradox, leaving Jynx's brain with no way to process the conflicting signals except to scream.
"I CAN'T! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE! I'M SORRY! I'LL BE QUIET! I SWEAR!"
"Too late!" Anya laughed—a cold, victorious sound. She grabbed Jynx’s toes, bending them backward to expose the balls of her feet to the onslaught. "You’re in detention forever!" she said triumphantly, skittering her talons over Jynx's taut sole.
"NOOOO! NOT FOREVE-HAAA-HAAA-HER! STOP! STOP IT! YIEEEE-HEEE!"
Jynx was thrashing so hard the heavy oak chair rocked on its legs. She was completely demolished, her toughness stripped away by the relentless ticking and the razor-sharp claws.
Stephen watched the monitor, zooming in on Jynx’s red, tear-streaked face as she howled.
"Amethyst," he whispered to himself. "You are lethal."
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